


No Flavors Left

by dimplelegacy



Series: Flavors of Crimson Bond [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: AU, Drabble, M/M, Vampire Sheith Week, Vampires, prompt: sire/transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-27 02:16:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21111044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dimplelegacy/pseuds/dimplelegacy
Summary: “The bond between the sire and newling is complete only when you drink my blood.”“I do not understand,” Keith murmurs.Suddenly Shiro is right in front of him, quick on his feet like always, his demeanor so magnificent and great that Keith feels himself smaller than ever this close to him.“You will,” Shiro whispers.Written for Vampire Sheith Week.





	No Flavors Left

**Author's Note:**

> This drabble is part of a sheith vampire project my partner in crime and I have been planning for... way too long. So I'm happy to finally write and publish at least some part of it! Of course, if you can enjoy it despite it only being a small scene, that's a big bonus!   
The prompt for today was Sire/Transformation. This scene is part of the transformation in the story but I definitely leaned more towards the Sire prompt. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always incredibly nice.

A smell tickles his senses. A vile smell that he could compare to…

_ Wait _ , he pauses.  _ What does a spoilt apple smell like? _

“Keith,” a voice says — deep and unforgettable. Every muscle Keith has in his body tenses, as if in danger, but not quite like it either; as if he’s asked to stay on his toes, be a good boy so he can earn his reward.

It’s ridiculous. Keith has never received any rewards in life.

He’s so tired. He only wants to sleep and not be bothered by anyone ever again. 

“Forgive me,” the voice speaks again, even lower this time, resembling a rough whisper. 

An adhesive, cold substance touches his skin, right under his nose and he flinches away from it fast — he can hear his bones crack as he jumps to his feet like an animal. Suddenly he finds himself wide awake; like a cat that’s tail has been stepped on, on all fours on the floor. He doesn’t even dare to blink at the man before him, he only focuses on flicking his gaze from the man’s unsure face to the napkin in his right hand. 

“Keith, it’s me.”

It’s impossible for him to process the words when the napkin is pinched between the man’s thumb and forefinger, spreading that  _ awful  _ odor.

“I know how horrific the smell must be. But I needed to wake you, you have slept like a dead for almost two days.”

The cold tile under his palms and bare feet is grounding, clean. Safe. He dreads to even imagine the possibility of the man coming closer to him, even though there is something assuring in the way he talks. 

Home. He should run home.

Where is home?

“Keith,” the man says his name again and with a flick of his wrist, he throws the napkin into the fireplace on the other side of the room. It lands into the flames and the fire swallows the smell with the fabric. “ _ Keith. Look at me. _ ”

The words are like a palm against an open wound; horrifying but soothing, pressing against the pain until he can ignore the ache but not the pressure on it. Not this man nor his voice.

“ _ Do you know me?” _ the man asks him.

Shiro asks him.

Shiro.

“Do you know who I am?” Shiro asks him again and the effect of the words is not as powerful but it demands Keith’s attention and response nevertheless. 

“Shiro,” Keith slowly utters. It hurts to speak but that won’t stop him from continuing. “Shiro. You’re here.” He doesn’t know why he says it, as if the affirmation of Shiro’s presence is vital to him.

Shiro smiles. “Of course I am. I swore I wouldn’t leave you.”

Keith remembers. He doesn’t think he ever forgot, instead something else, like survival — against  _ a napkin  _ — was occupying all the space in his head.

He remembers dying. Begging. Welcoming pain and then slumber that seemed to go on for years. 

“You did it,” Keith says, staring at Shiro. “You turned me.”

Something in Shiro’s posture changes drastically though he barely moves and there’s defeat in his eyes. “Yes. I am so sorry.”

“I asked for it.” He wasn’t ready to die — his father’s murderers were somewhere still, blissfully ignorant of how they destroyed Keith’s life and disgraced the greatest man their sorry selves ever had the opportunity to meet. “Do not apologize for something that I wanted.”

“You do not understand. You don’t know that I have doomed you, in every meaning of the word.”

Shiro seems to be ready to spill out every regret and apology he has held in but as Keith rises from the floor and takes a few tentative steps towards him, he thins his lips and says nothing.

“No,” Keith shakes his head and ruefully smiles at Shiro. “Thank you.”

Shiro doesn’t seem to want to accept Keith’s gratitude but instead averts his eyes and looks at his right, artificial hand. “I was forced to wake you with dead man’s blood. You slept for too long.” He frowns at Keith then. “Are you not hungry at all?”

Hunger seems like a faraway thought to Keith. He understands it’s meaning, much like the meaning of smell, but he cannot quite grasp the memory of the feeling. 

He shakes his head.

His answer seems to trouble Shiro. “You should be parched by now. But it might be better this way. You won’t have to feel the pain of the first thirst.”

“Maybe I’m a vampire that does not need blood,” Keith jokes but saying it out loud sounds much too like a wish. 

Shiro looks at him with the same familiar sad expression. “Come here. You must drink from me first.”

“What did you say?” Keith asks incredulously though he feels something awaken inside of him as he watches Shiro open his arms for him. 

“The bond between the sire and newling is complete only when you drink my blood.”

“I do not understand,” Keith murmurs.

Suddenly Shiro is right in front of him, quick on his feet like always, his demeanor so magnificent and great that Keith feels himself smaller than ever this close to him. 

“You will,” Shiro whispers. His voice is back to the deep, sensual tone and it shakes Keith’s core, balance, and attention completely. When Shiro pulls tight against his chest, Keith can do nothing but melt into the consuming embrace, weak-kneed and whimpering. It feels shameful and unnatural at worst but the comfort and safety it evokes are much stronger — Shiro’s palms knead Keith’s shoulder-blades and his nose glides against the shell of Keith’s ear, and it makes Keith feel chained to him, like Shiro’s touch is bringing him to life. 

“What…” Keith manages to mumble, confusion scratching at the corners of his consciousness. 

Shiro’s hand directs Keith’s palm to his muscular chest and only then Keith sees that he has no nails anymore — claws are attached to the tips of his fingers and only the slightest movement of them catches the thin material of Shiro’s undershirt, stretching it. Shiro presses his own palm against the back of Keith’s hand and then he jerks Keith’s wrist swiftly — the shirt tears and blood blooms under the impact of Keith’s nails.

“Shiro—” Keith calls out his name, alarmed but then the scent of Shiro’s blood hits his senses. 

It overwhelms him. He gasps, then moans and then he’s breathing heavily like he’s out of breath after running but at the same time he feels energized, alert.    
  
Shiro’s fingers are on the side of his throat.

Melting. He wants to melt into Shiro.

“That’s it, you’re doing very good, Keith. It’s okay.”

Keith’s eyelids are heavy but he somehow has the strength to look into Shiro’s eyes. Shiro doesn’t look as content as Keith feels but there is something in his soft gaze, something fond and endearing. The mere thought of Shiro being pleased with him makes Keith shiver in delight.

What is happening to him?

His gaze travels down from Shiro’s eyes to his neck and to his chest, the droplets of blood on his skin just begging to be licked by Keith’s tongue. There is something heavy in his mouth, pressing against his gums and lips; asking to break free. 

“Drink, Keith. You can do it, I’m right here with you,” Shiro’s fingers pressing against the back of Keith’s neck feel as encouraging as his words. “Do it, I want you to.  _ Drink, now. _ ”

_ Shiro. Drink. Drink. Drink. Lick. Eat. Devour. Shiro. Shiroshiroshiroshiro. _

Shiro’s voice and Keith’s instincts are what lead him through the next hazy seconds, minutes, hours. 

The taste of Shiro is like a vein pulsing on Keith’s tongue; ever-existing and undoubtedly alive. 


End file.
